


My Mind is Quicksand

by accidentalauthoress



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 06:18:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidentalauthoress/pseuds/accidentalauthoress
Summary: Some of Sam's musings as he sinks deeper and deeper into a crippling depression that Dean knows nothing of. Rated T for language and suicidal thoughts. Please R&R!





	1. Sinking

Do you know what it feels like to step out of a warm, relaxing shower into the chill winter air filling your bathroom? That's what it feels like for me when I wake up every day. My name is Sam Winchester, and for the first time I'm willing to put it down in writing: I have severe depression.

It's funny, in a sick way, how life goes on. Day after day, I want to just fade away, and the whole world is oblivious to my pain. The world keeps spinning, even though it feels like it's crashing down around me. In the morning, I struggle to get out of bed. I force breakfast down my throat and go about my day. All the while feeling empty, all the while feeling a crushing, painful nothingness inside. All the while I lack the energy to do almost anything besides keep Dean from seeing. Because depression isn't something big brother can just patch up and make all better.

Depression is a dark pit inside the menace that is my own mind, and the guilt that I feel because there is nothing really wrong with me. It hurts so badly inside that sometimes I want to shout it from the rooftops in a twisted bid to make someone, anyone else understand what I'm going through. But then I calm down and try to tell myself I'm alright. After all, nothing is broken or bloodied.

And in my family, that's what we care about. So Dean doesn't need to see these signs of weakness. Dean has enough things to think about, and Dean has enough issues of his own.

Sometimes it gets really bad, and I don't know why. Sometimes it just hits me and I want to scream, or cry, or just lie in bed all day. I wish I could explain it. But then again, who would I tell anyways? Dean would say to buck up and get over it. Maybe, if I was lucky, he'd hand me a drink and let me talk it out for a little while. Never for long enough. Because in this family, we don't talk about feelings. We don't tell each other we love each other or that we're there for each other. Even when that's the thing you need to hear most in the world.

Depression hurts in every way. It feels like my insides are aching. I've started getting terrible migraines. I can't sleep at night, and when I do, I have nightmares and try my best not to wake Dean. My whole body just… hurts. Not only am I giving up on myself, so is my body. But I think the scariest thing is feeling nothing at all. I'm used to feeling sad, but when everything fades away, what's left? The numbness is worse than anything, and those are the times when I'm a little more careless during hunts. Everything is a blur. Dean's words bounce right off of me, my reflexes are slowed… and to be honest, when I end up hurt it's almost nice to feel something… Anything at all.

Maybe Mom would have understood this. Hell, maybe Mom went through something like this once. I may not have known her, but from the stories Dean has told… I know that she would listen. I know that she would be sympathetic and not judge me. I know that she would love me no matter what. And I know that she would do her best to help. But Mom is gone, and God knows that I can't talk about this shit with anyone else.

Dean, part of me wishes you knew. I wish you could save me from drowning. I wish you could save me from myself.

But instead, I'll keep sinking lower and lower into the darkness.


	2. Confrontation

"Sammy, are you suicidal?"

He asked it point-blank, his voice steady and measured.

I had never thought I would hear those words come out of Dean's mouth. And, hell, if they did, he wouldn't say it like that. He would be drunk, or joking, or angry… not calm and serious, like he was now.

And, to be honest, I had no idea how to answer. "Suicidal" is such a weighted term. It's a dichotomous variable; either you are or you aren't. And if you are, you obviously have a gun held behind your back and are ready to pull the trigger. It's something that will get you hospitalized because everyone is afraid. If you aren't, you're totally fine and you never need to bring it up again and you'll just pretend we didn't talk about it. But in all reality, suicidality is something that you live with, something that ebbs and flows. It's something I live with. It's something that laps like waves at my psyche, day after day, night after agonizing night.

If depression and suicidality are waves, anxiety is thorns. Sharp and annoying, and there always seems to be at least one digging into me. And, granted, when there's just one it's no big deal. But with anxiety, every time I move to pull out a thorn, another one pops up in its place. Sometimes, two more appear; sometimes, ten. It's never ending, and sometimes it gets so bad that I feel that sharpness in every inch of my body. It becomes overwhelming, but I hide yet again.

Some days, it's worse than others. Some days, I get up and spend the day with Dean and wanting to die is no more than a tiny nagging thought in the back of my head. But other days, I feel almost completely unable to get myself out of bed and put on a fake smile and pretend everything is okay. I want to lie in the dark, letting the waves wash over me, letting them drag me out to sea and do what they will with me. I wanted to give in – so badly, sometimes, that I lay there shaking and crying at night, trying to convince myself that I shouldn't want to die so much, that my life is just fine. As though that will fix it. I fight and fight, trying to hold back the tears so that Dean never suspects anything. In the morning, I wake up exhausted and torn apart, trying to pull myself together and put back on the mask that Dean is so used to.

As much as it made me want to scream, I also want someone to know. I want someone to understand. And I want someone to not panic when I tell them, someone who would recognize that these feelings as much a part of me as my shaggy hair or my green eyes. It begs to be noticed, and I want to beg for it to be eradicated. But I can't tell anyone, because no one will ever understand the way that I need them to.

Dean will never understand, and I thought I had fooled him. I thought I had managed to hide it all away. But at some point, I had fucked up. I had missed something, and I had let him see too much, and now he was on to me. If I lied, he would know. And if I told the truth, I would be forcing him to shoulder a burden no brother should have to bear.

But today, as I looked my brother in the eyes, I saw years of pain and hurt and love. I saw his fear for me. Most of all, I saw his fierce desire to protect me. I had seen it for years; it seemed like it was always lurking in the depths of his eyes. But today, it was different. Today, there was no monster to save me from. Today, he wanted to protect me from myself.

Today, I looked my big brother in the eyes and said:

"Yes."


	3. Reprieve

How much should I tell him? I was dangerously close to spilling my guts.

When I sat next to you in Vegas writing in my journal I told you it was Rubaru research. It was actually a rough draft of a suicide note that I was writing, just to see what it felt like.

He wasn't blinking, was barely breathing as he waited for me to say something. To say anything.

Sometimes at night I wait till you're asleep, grab my favorite hunting knife, and trace it over my skin and my veins. It's the closest thing I can do to hurting myself without you noticing, and it's comforting in a sick way.

Dean was sitting uncomfortably close, invading my personal bubble, trying to make it pop so I told him all of the things I'd been hiding.

Every morning when I wake up I ask myself if you'd be better off without me.

He must have seen it. He must have seen my internal struggle, as I gaped like a fish out of water, trying to find the words for what I wanted and needed to say.

Oh, god. No. No, no no no.

My mouth went dry and my heart started to race as fast as my thoughts. I'd started to develop panic attacks over the last few months, and I had always managed to hide them – albeit barely, at times. But now, as I felt the adrenaline coursing through my veins, there was no hiding. Dean wouldn't let me out of his sight. I was trapped, and I was about to break.

Can't breathe. No air.

I vaguely felt Dean's hand on my shoulder. He could sense something was wrong. He could hear my breaths coming quicker and quicker.

"Sammy?"

But I couldn't reply. There wasn't air to breathe, let alone to reply with.

"Sammy, breathe for me."

His hands were on both shoulders now, and he was forcing me to meet his eyes.

If I don't say something now, I'm never going to manage to get it out.

"Drowning," I finally gasped. "I'm drowning."

Dean's face registered confusion for a second before he realized that I was talking about the depression. But that second was all that it took for him to shift into protective big brother mode.

"Sammy, I need you to breathe," he said immediately, more gently than I think I've ever heard him say anything. The panic had peaked by then, and I was starting to regain air. Thank god, my attacks were usually short. But Dean stayed by my side until he was assured I would be alright, murmuring reassurances for the entirety of the longest five minutes of my life.

"I'm sorry," I murmured as soon as I could, but before I got the words out Dean was stopping me.

"You let me in, Sammy," he interrupted, his tone grateful. "That's all I wanted. Even if it was rough."

"We don't do this, Dean, we don't talk about feelings, I shouldn't have said anything," I scoffed, my words tumbling out one after another. I carded my hands through my hair anxiously, trying to regain any semblance of control.

"We do if you need to, Sam," Dean continued. And before I could prepare myself, he gave me the simple assurance I had been craving, that I had been sure would never pass his lips.

"I'll always be right here, Sammy. No matter what. We'll get you through this."

He stopped short of the "I love you," but I had never been so sure of his love in my entire life. For once, I had some hope that I might make it through this.

With my big brother by my side.


End file.
